Five Times, at Baker Street
by tiltedsyllogism
Summary: John and Sherlock, together in Baker Street. A series of snapshot-length historical AUs, and a 5 1 in 221b form.
1. Chapter 1: 1916

"In there," Sherlock said tersely.

The man gave him a brief, sharp glance, but went unerringly to the cabinet beside the sink, as if he already knew where to look, as if this were not his first time under the roof of 221 Baker Street.

The stranger rummaged through the satchel containing Sherlock's medical supplies, and then beckoned him forward into the tiny lavatory.

The man had stood listening to Sherlock play for twenty minutes, despite the cold, then come forward to drop a very small coin into the violin case, and had seen the blood trickling down Sherlock's wrist.

"It's not serious," Sherlock had said off-handedly, lifting his violin to begin the next piece.

"Oh, no you don't." The man had reached forward suddenly, catching the neck of the violin. "It's only going to get worse if you keep playing. You could do with stitches."

Sherlock didn't like anyone else touching his violin, but he did like being surprised. "Know any doctors, Doctor?"

Now, in 221b, the doctor worked in silence until Sherlock's knuckle closed up underneath a neat black fence of stitches. "There," he said, looking up at last. "Now take care of those hands, yeah?"

Sherlock was grudgingly impressed. "Ever been a musician's medical assistant?" he asked, before he could stop himself.

The man smiled. "I could be."


	2. Chapter 2: 1946

The new boy wasn't especially friendly – but neither was John, really, anymore. He'd had friends at school in Brixton, before the war, and he'd done all right with the other boys who'd been sent to stay with the Petersons in Surrey. But returning to London had been hard, knowing his parents wouldn't meet him at the train platform the way he'd spent two years imagining.

The other six residents at Mrs. Hudson's Home for Boys shouted a lot, and sometimes smashed things. John understood – he was angry, too – but he kept it locked down inside, behind a wall of politeness. He wanted his mum to be proud of him.

This other boy seemed to be like John, like he went far away instead of yelling. After a week of silent suppers side by side, he turned to John one evening and asked "can I have your pudding?"

John frowned. "Why should I give it to you?"

"You don't like sponge cake. Or rather, you like _real_ sponge, and though normally you'll eat anything sweet, this pap is an affront to your memory the real thing."

John grinned. "I have got used to eating it, but you can have it all the same. That was amazing."

The boy smiled conspiratorially. "Come up to my bunk after? I've got a packet of biscuits."


	3. Chapter 3: 1895

"Get dressed, Watson," Sherlock said, buttoning his close-fitting aubergine waistcoat. "Your best jacket. We're going out."

John, in his habitual chair, kept his eyes on his newspaper. "Whatever for?"

"Soiree at the Café Royal."

Now John looked up, frowning in evident confusion. "Is this to do with the Wilde trial?"

"One of the witnesses is being blackmailed," Sherlock replied, buttoning his cuffs. "We'll need to pose as members of the community, of course," he added with elaborate nonchalance.

John's eyes widened. "You want us to…" he blinked. "Half a moment, Holmes, why do you even care? This isn't your sort of case at all."

This was vexing. John typically agreed to participate in case-related exploits without question, if a bit of occasional grumbling. His skepticism in this instance was perfectly sound – Sherlock's interest in the case was funded almost entirely by the opportunities it furnished for indulging this ulterior motive – but nonetheless unanticipated.

"Watson," Sherlock began again, coaxingly. "You know how I rely on your presence during my investigations."

John merely returned to his paper, snapping the pages pointedly. "I'm sure you will manage without me."

Sherlock turned away to cover his chagrin. Concocting a plausible account of his interest in the Wilde case was going to require more effort than anticipated. He might actually have to read the man's books.


	4. Chapter 4: 1974

They had slept together half a dozen times at Uni, back when John was still experimenting with things; he'd also spent two months in the chemistry programme before coming to his senses and realizing he wanted something more practical.

Sherlock stuck with chemistry – stuck to men, as well, if you wanted to put it that way – but his rebellion had been going up at East London in the first place. So maybe it was all an experiment, after that.

They'd parted friends, mostly, but it was definitely a parting – Sherlock stopped coming round the house, stopped showing up in the library on Thursday nights. But Mike had been right, when he put them back in touch; it was easy between them, the way it had been at the beginning.

"All in the past, John," Sherlock said, when John worked up the nerve to mention it, six weeks into living at Baker Street. "We were different people, before. The details of our history needn't set the terms for the present."

"So you did read that Alan Watts book," John replied, grinning. Sherlock sneered but did not deny it.

John is proud of the person he's become, his service in Vietnam and the lives he's saved. But as he sits across the living room watching Sherlock's hands, he can't help thinking of _before_.


	5. Chapter 5: 1938

"Plague pits, under London!" John shook his head in amazement, smiling at their visitor. "I had no idea, did you, Sherlock?"

Sherlock only scowled, sinking deeper into both his chair and his irritation. The body had been dumped in the new excavations beneath Swiss Cottage, but Richard Marsden had clearly been killed elsewhere. There was no reason for them to concern themselves with the dump site until they knew more about Marsden's finances and could reach some preliminary conclusions about his killer. There was absolutely no reason for Inspector Graham from the New Works Programme to continue to occupy space in their sitting room.

"Most people don't realize the extent of it," said Graham diffidently.

"Well, Sherlock's an expert on London," John replied – which was better, but then – "the surface, anyhow; I reckon he doesn't know what's underground." John bestowed another smile on the Inspector. "He won't even take the tube!"

Sherlock did know, actually. But plague victims were dull; no mystery as to how they had died, obviously, and the individual circumstances were irrelevant to the present and therefore not worth ascertaining. Though it was true that it was all less dull when Sherlock was the one talking.

John heard Sherlock scoff and shot him a reproving look. Sherlock smiled primly, and considered where best to hide the Inspector's bones.


	6. Chapter 6: 2013

John accepts the coffee, nodding, without evident surprise at Sherlock's thoughtfulness. The first time they came here, John had been wide-eyed, wrecked, staring at nothing; the second time, Sherlock sat silent and watched all the data of the outside world land on a dull surface. The third time, John was more alert, and flinched at every detail like it hurt him. But this is the fourteenth time, and evidently it's all normal now, the rhythms of their weekly coffee at the Costa two streets away from the surgery. Normal for John, at least, which is what matters.

Sherlock has grown accustomed, by now, to seeing new lines in John's face at each meeting, the shadows deepening during the empty crevices of weeks that yawn between these hours. He watches John so closely, in that one precious hour each week, and still he misses so much. If his newfound solicitude ever registered with John, Sherlock wasn't there to see it happen.

"I hope you know, John, that you're welcome to move back in. When you're inclined." He pauses and squeezes his eyes shut, _stupid_. "If you're inclined."

John is silent so long that Sherlock worries he has somehow triggered Week Two distress levels. But then John purses his lips and gives a small, firm nod to his coffee cup.

"I will be."


End file.
